War's End
by Kweh-chan
Summary: One does not emerge from thirteen years of hell unscathed and unaffected. Unable to sleep, Viceroy Nute Gunray looks back on his time as viceroy and sees only an era of ruin. Short story, contains hints of Gunray/Haako.


It was a dead hour – one where every sophisticated (or sane) being should be tucked warmly away, sleeping soundly. And indeed, it seemed, everyone was; lost within slumber or dream, blissfully vulnerable and oblivious to the chaotic waking hours in this time and age; grasping unconsciously at the few microbes of peace still available. Everyone, that is, except for Nute Gunray.

He was not in his viceregal suite on the _Vuutun Palaa_ – that had been destroyed a long time ago; nor was he in one of his lavish residences, where every room was flanked by the best security available to any Neimoidian. He was not even in the comfort of a Trade Federation vessel, where a vague sense of familiarity could bring him some reassurance. It was unknown to him when, or even if, he could ever feel such a thing again, let alone recognise it anymore; he was now in exile from his own home, his own entitled planet, escaping while all but carrying what meant most to him, and it was unlikely that he would ever see his home again. He briefly thought back to that day. The _Lapiz Cutter_ had been filled with priceless artifacts, jewelry, robes, mitres: the best of his best; he tried hard not to think about everything else. And still, his remaining material wealth was not what plagued his mind so greatly, and not what threatened to bring a painful lump to his throat at the worst possible moments, whenever he was forced to listen to the rest of the Separatists and General Grievous discuss Cato Neimoidia. _Cato Neimoidia_; the very name evoked images of the best the Neimoidians had to offer. Towering palaces trimmed in precious metal, gilded streets, nobility, fine dining, all perched atop massive bridges, elevating the lofty beings kilometres above the planet's surface. It was symbolic as it was ostentatious...and it was home. _Was_.

Of the many great and precious objects Gunray had left behind, there was none greater than his sense of home, of safety. There was no spaceship big enough to carry that sensation, to feel even marginally normal (as normal as a Viceroy could get) once again. He recalled the days when he slept soundly in his own bed, lost within the vast expanse of his Citadel; the days where he could walk in safety, never having to look over his shoulder for the Jedi or Clone who might arrest or kill him; the days where he was loved and admired; the days where he felt no fear. They were so long ago now that they seemed almost like a dream; it was hard to believe that they had existed at all, and yet they had. And now, here he lay in the best suite (still a pittance compared even to his suite on the Saak'ak) onboard a CIS _Munificent_-class destroyer, part of a convoy en-route to his new "home" with the rest of the Separatist Council. Gunray had never been very good at adapting; as a Neimoidian, he preferred consistency and planning ahead, and yet he had managed adaptation to even the most appalling of circumstances, all these years, not least because his life had depended on it. In such a situation, one finds ways around his disabilities. Still, he thought often of Senator Lott Dod, who still had standing and respect in the eyes of the Republic, who, as a senator in the Republic, had no need to run and hide, who _did_ have consistency in his life. Senator Dod was so fortunate that he had a magnificent palace on Cato Neimoidia which he could return to whenever he wished, without fear of arrest or death. Gunray had visited it many times, even staying there on occasion; although nowhere as big as his own citadel, the palace was fit for any Neimoidian noble, and the sense of luxury and sanctity was priceless.

The suite, in which Gunray was staying, was so dull as to be literally depressing. There were neither rich colours nor shimmering metals, and there was not a single jewel to be spoken of. It was about as un-Neimoidian as it came. Still, it was better than a cell. For hours, Gunray had lain there, listening to the nearly soundless chronometer counting away time. Nowadays, Gunray could not help but to wonder if all the chronometers in the galaxy were nothing more than a countdown, mocking him. There was almost a part of him that did not want to sleep; what if these were his last moments? What if, at this very moment, Grievous was planning his death? Then sleep would bring him ever closer to it. And yet, he _needed_ to sleep. He was so tired – constantly tired! Tired of everything. Even his normal, nightly encounter with his deputy, Rune Haako, had not relaxed him or exhausted him enough. He turned slightly to face the officer sleeping soundly next to him. "How does he do it?" Gunray found himself thinking. "Is he worried about nothing?"

Then again, he thought, how do you know he did not fall asleep thinking the same thoughts?

Did Haako sleep so soundly because he trusted in Gunray's abilities, in his role as viceroy? Did he, in fact, feel a sense of safety and security with Gunray? They had been together for thirteen years. Haako had followed him everywhere, with loyalty unheard of in a Neimoidian, and Gunray would have it no other way. He hated to admit it, even (or perhaps especially) to himself, but Haako had been the single true consistency throughout his professional and personal life; he had been an invaluable business partner, and an endless source of pleasure and even companionship, and Gunray could not help but to feel an ever-increasing sense of attachment to him. Haako had warned him of the impending attack on his Citadel, and without his priceless advice, Gunray would have nothing right now, perhaps not even his life. He shook away the thought that, in no small way, he owed his life to Haako; why should a viceroy lower himself to a mere lieutenant? Yet still, the idea remained within his mind. He silently wished he had listened to Haako all those years ago, before the invasion of Naboo. It seemed like the perfect deal: endless riches and wealth, fame and fortune, all for just invading a tiny, out-of-the-way planet. He had underestimated the will of its blasted queen and a couple of Jedi, placing his trust entirely in Sidious; Haako had not. Instead, he found himself arrested, imprisoned, and, when he _was_ finally released, on the run ever since. And now...now he had next to nothing. He barely even had his life.

How much longer? How long until he had nothing left? Gunray did not want to lose everything, he wanted to live, he wanted to be a viceroy, he just wanted everything to be back to normal, and more than anything, he just wanted to go home. Those who had the greatest ability to leave him with nothing were no longer outsiders in the Republic, they were within his own organisation: Count Dooku, General Grievous, Darth Sidious. They had already robbed him of nearly everything he held dear. If he could run away, turn the ship around and run to the very edges of the universe where everything was safe and certain, he would. Gunray _wanted_ to.

He was suddenly gripped with a most profound and intense sense of fear, repulsion and utter despair; the lump had returned to his throat, and, inexplicably, he reached for Haako, wrapping an arm across his back, clutching him as tightly and closely as he dared. He was not even thinking, and he prayed that Haako truly _was_ asleep and would not wake up. He could NOT see or know that his viceroy was doing this. Despite his actions for the past thirteen years, Gunray had kept some amount of distance between them, ensuring that Haako knew his place; never had he engaged such closeness between them. After all, why should a viceroy do such a thing? But in this moment, he feared. He feared losing it all; he feared losing his life...he even feared losing Haako. Each day for thirteen years, he had done what was expected and required of him as a Neimoidian and as a viceroy, and simply bluffed away the majority of his concerns, holding much of his fear within himself. If humans considered him to be a frightened coward, he was not even showing a tenth of what he truly felt. Instead, he allowed others to fear, as subordinates should. Nowadays, however, it was getting harder and harder to do that.

He began to tremble. He could no longer take it. In this moment, he was tired of the fear, and simply wanted everything to end so he and Haako could go back to living normally. Gunray wished he had never been a part of the war or the Separatists. If he had just refused Sidious' offer, he would have been no less wealthy, but he would have had his freedom, his home, his life – not a cold suite on a colder star destroyer, fleeing for his life, or perhaps from it. Gunray could not believe it was happening; for the first time, he could not believe it. He could not believe that he was being taken to another planet by a mad half-droid general, never to see his home again. It was as though his entire life, until this moment, had been lived in denial, and he was, for the first time opening his eyes, accepting the truth. He did not want to accept it. He wanted to go home, tired of everything, and be free from it.

He was tired.

Slowly, he let Haako go, grateful he had not stirred, and turned with his back to him. He had little to fear – the lieutenant would not dare grab onto him, but on this of all nights, Gunray might have overlooked such a breach in social interactions, had it occurred. Gunray was too pained to stay awake anymore, and little by little, he felt himself losing the will to even worry. He felt blank and worn; he already felt dead. On the desk next to him proudly stood his Viceroy's mitre, immaculately kept; Gunray looked helplessly at it, and, after a second, could not even bear to do that. Instead, he curled into as small a space as he could, in a feeble attempt to hide and feel safe. Maybe time will stop, he thought, and he can live forever within this safe moment. He had never been optimistic of anything –that was not the Neimoidian way; however, he allowed himself a brief moment to think, to hope that maybe this new stronghold would be the break they had all hoped for, the turning point in their favour. Somehow, however, he doubted it.

He closed his eyes and began to dream of towering palaces trimmed in precious metal, gilded streets, nobility, fine dining, all perched atop massive bridges: home.


End file.
